Nick continued, his tone firm and authoritative, "We owe Queenie a great deal over the past twenty-five years. That's why I'm taking her back to the Yeats family—to make up for everything. She deserves better, and I'll ensure she marries a man whose status and background match our family's standing. John, I trust you understand what I mean."
As the words fell from his lips, Nick's gaze hardened, his expression laced with implicit threat.
He had long harbored suspicions about the relationship between Queenie and John. That day, he had seen them walking out of the hotel hand in hand, her eyes dazed and vulnerable in John's arms. Nick couldn't accept the idea that nothing had happened behind closed doors. He had chosen not to dig further, as long as John kept his distance from Queenie.
A heavy silence stretched between them.
Then, John let out a slow, sardonic laugh.
"Nick," he said coldly, "I called you 'uncle' out of respect for Sister Queenie. But if you weren't her father, do you know what would've happened just now for the way you spoke to me?"
Nick's pupils contracted slightly.
John's voice remained composed, but his words carried a chilling weight. "Let me make this clear. You have no authority—none at all—to tell me how to handle my relationship with Queenie. If I hear another word like this from you again, even if you're her biological father… I won't hesitate to make you regret it."
With that, John turned around and strode back into the villa.
Nick stood frozen in place, utterly shaken.
The pressure radiating from that young man had felt overwhelming—unreasonably powerful for someone barely in his twenties.
Was it confidence?
Audacity?
Or something deeper?
Nick's initial fear gave way to skepticism.
"What am I thinking? He's just a kid. He must be bluffing. There's no way someone so young could be as dangerous as he seemed just now."
Forcing his expression back to normal, Nick shook off the lingering unease and followed John into the living room.
Meanwhile, in an upstairs room, Marcia was trying to persuade Queenie.
"Sweetheart," she said gently, reaching out to grasp her daughter's hands, "come back with us to the Yeats family. We can give you the life you deserve—the life you were meant to have."
Queenie looked up slowly, her voice soft but resolute. "I'm happy that you accept me as your daughter, and I'm grateful to know the truth. But it's impossible for me to give up the life I have now."
She stood, her back straight and unwavering. "I have six sisters. And I have John. I've built something meaningful with them. I'm content—truly. So please… don't bring this up again."
The conversation ended with tension crackling in the air.
Nick, having rejoined Marcia downstairs, sighed heavily. "Maybe we're rushing her. It's only our first day together. She needs time."
Marcia nodded reluctantly. "You're right. I just hope she eventually understands we want what's best for her."
As the couple prepared to leave, Marcia paused and turned back to John, motioning him aside.
"For Queenie's sake," she said, lowering her voice, "you should convince her to come back with us. It's what's best for her."
John's eyes remained calm as he responded evenly, "There's no need for that. I will take care of Sister Queenie myself."
Marcia's composure cracked.
"Take care of her? You?" she said with open scorn. "What can you possibly give her? In the Yeats family, she can have everything—a future filled with luxury, respect, security. Can you offer her that?"
She glared at him, her frustration bubbling over. She blamed him—this arrogant, unworthy boy—for Queenie's reluctance to return.
But John didn't flinch.
In the same quiet, measured tone, he replied, "Everything your family can give her—I can, too. But what I can give her… your family couldn't offer even if you gave your lives trying."
Marcia's jaw dropped in disbelief.
"How arrogant can you be?"
John gave a slight smile. "Remember what I said. Time will tell."
"Time will prove that you're just a dreamer, and she'll be the one who suffers for it!"
Without another word, Marcia stormed away.
The couple left Greenland Villa, their faces clouded with disappointment and irritation. Their long-lost reunion had soured, tainted by the presence of a man they considered nothing but a slick-talking impostor.
"That John is all bark and no bite," Marcia fumed in the car. "Just wait until Queenie's heart is broken. Then she'll realize who truly loves her."
Nick shook his head, offering a bitter chuckle. "They all grew up in that welfare center. It's no surprise they've bonded so deeply. But once she meets someone more… suitable, she'll come to her senses."
Marcia's eyes lit up suddenly. "Wait. Isn't the boy from the Bush family returning soon?"
Nick raised an eyebrow, then nodded slowly. "That's right…"
The atmosphere turned contemplative.
Back at the villa, Queenie sat in a daze, caught between the joy of reunion and the bitterness of confrontation.
Alice threw her arm around Queenie's shoulders, trying to lighten the mood. "Don't overthink it, sis. Whatever you decide, we're still your sisters. We'll always be here—and so will John."
Tracy joined in. "That's right! Let's stop brooding and go blow off some steam. I vote for a wild night at the bar!"
Alice whooped, "Hell yeah! Let's get hammered!"
Later that night, the four of them walked into the Night Rose Bar, and instantly became the center of attention. The three girls were stunning—like ethereal beings who had descended into the mortal world just to make hearts race.
Alice climbed onto the platform and announced boldly, "Drink up, everyone! Tonight's on me—the Queen of Night Rose!"
The crowd roared.
"Long live the Queen of Night Rose!"
"Queen, can I lick your high heels?!"
The club erupted into wild laughter and adoration. The high energy drove away the shadows from earlier.
After several rounds of drinks, Queenie was visibly tipsy. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled as she turned to John and asked, "Little John… can you dance?"
John grinned. "That's exactly what I was hoping you'd say."
They made their way to the center of the dance floor.
Without hesitation, Queenie threw herself into his arms.
John didn't speak—he didn't need to.
He simply held her.
Tightly.
Protectively.
Unshakably.